Silver Linings and Dark Clouds
by treeson
Summary: But how much had she changed? Could he count on old memories? Could he count on someone who lived with freaking Loki not to change? The hula girl on the dash had no answers. Immediately after Cold. Part of the VVerse.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter. I do not seek to make profit off this work. Harry Potter and its characters belong to JKR and I am happy for her to have that title. I do not own Supernatural or its characters, Kripke does.

**Author Note**: Immediately after _Cold_.

* * *

"Woah, woah, woah—"

"Got it," Dean said, and Sam put his hand on the dash as he made a screeching U-turn in the middle of the street. Dean straightened the car with a reckless zigzag pattern, his grin a skeleton's grin. Sam waved to the people left leaning on their horns and standing on their brakes. Oops. Little busy, though.

"There it is," Sam said, catching sight of it. "Here- let me out here and go park up the block somewhere."

"Sam—"

The car in front of them slowed to a stop, so Dean had to, and Sam jumped out before Dean could properly lay into him.

Sam looked left and right before crossing the street at a quick jog. He craned his neck to see around the gas guzzling SUV before he got to it. Yep. Blue Ford Falcon. The parking lot was between a bookstore and a pizza place. Sam dithered. He knew exactly where she would be if they were still in high school. But how much had she changed? Could he count on old memories? Could he count on someone who lived with freaking _Loki_not to change? The hula girl on the dash had no answers.

The air that hit him when he opened the door was like a kilo of garlic being dropped on him from a five story building. It was thick, and damp, and like a sauna in the jungle—and there was Hermione sitting at the counter with her back to the window, bobbing her head out of sync to the music playing, slice in her hand and a book in the other. Reading glasses rested around her neck with a gold chain, but she didn't wear them.

Yeah. The hurt in his chest felt too good to be hurt.

The man behind the counter caught sight of him, tipped a pizza cutter at him, and said, "What canna get you?"

"Whatever Hermione's having," Sam said, nodding her way. "The one reading—"

"Yeah, that's Hermione aight," the guy said. "Get it to ya in a sec."

So the locals knew Hermione. He scoffed silently. Of course they did. Hermione couldn't _not_be noticed, no matter how hard she tried to be that snotty girl with the rulebook memorized. He shook his head, fighting a too easy smile, and made his way down the counter.

"So what happened to fighting for the rights of house-elves?" Sam asked.

"They ended up organizing a rebellion against me," Hermione said. Sam's grin became _way_more easier when she blinked, swallowed her bite of pizza with a grimace, and started coughing. He really shouldn't be as amused with someone who spent weeks lying to him—then again, she'd been a kid, too. He guessed. He hoped. Because it really would've been weird if he was perving on some thousand year old goddess-consort to Loki creature.

_Had_been perving, he corrected himself.

"Sam," she choked out in a strained voice. She waved her book at him—_The Baron's Harem_—and brought her drink to her mouth desperately.

"I guess Gabriel didn't have a chance to tell you we were coming," Sam said. "Sorry about that."

She made a face and took another drink, coughing it down. "Um – no, no, he didn't. Georgie, could I please get another drink? I seemed to have spilled this one all down my front."

"Gottit."

"Oh, you've ordered," Hermione said, noticing the plate Georgie slid in front of him. "Good, uh, good. Do you want to get something for Dean or is he waiting out the backdoor for me to slip out? It's – you have grown _exponentially_. I didn't have to look so far up before. Thank you."

Sam took a bite of his pizza—mm, pineapple—and watched out of the corner of his eye as she ran her hand over her sophisticated, stuffy jacket. It was dry and clean when she picked up her new drink.

"Nah, Dean probably went to the bookstore first," Sam told her. "So which goddess are you? Minerva? Hecate? I know you're not Artemis."

She made a noise somewhere between a snort and a shout that fell into the disbelieving laughter category.

"Me, a goddess? No, I'm sorry. Just a – well, not a regular human, but regular enough."

"I just saw you clean your jacket."

"Yes," she said slowly. "That's the regular enough part." She cleared her throat. "So. How have you been? Your father isn't here, too, is he? Only, I have a meeting with my suppliers and though I would love to stay for a chat—"

"You can look at me, you know," Sam told her. "I'm not going to shoot you."

"Uhm, good. Because that would be a mortal wound," Hermione said, concentrating hard on rearranging slices of pineapple into a pyramid. "Did you say you killed Gabriel? Only, I'm not sure you did. No offense."

"Dad died," he said.

She gasped, and her eyes shot to his. Sam saw the horror, the surprise, the pain. He could tell it was true, everything; he had always been good at reading her. "Gabriel?" she asked in a tiny whisper.

"No," Sam said. "Demon."

She hesitated before placing her hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Sam. So sorry. Have you found the one who did it? Do you need any help at all? I have a selection of books on demonology in my collection. Do you know its name? Maybe I've read about it before."

He tried out a smile for her. "Thanks. I'll let you know. About this regular enough—"

"Actually, I would _love_to explain that—"

"Hermione."

"—and the reason I was _definitely_going to email you. Partly. But—"

"You have a truckload of explaining to do."

"—there's my supplier coming. Hello, Luna! This is my old friend Sam Winchester, he hunts magical creatures like us so you should Apparate when you leave."

The blond girl—somehow just looking at her made him dizzy, because she wasn't as normal as Hermione (wasn't), but seemed to exude strangeness into the air. He could see other heads turning, though Georgie called out, "Parsnips again?" This may have had something to do with her earrings.

"Hello, Sam," Luna said, smiling at him. He focused on her dress, made out of material unsuitable for winter instead of her face, which kind of caused hives on his eyes.

"Nice to meet you," he said, trying to insert some friendliness into his tone. This was getting out of hand (he'd expected different?).

"I hope you don't hunt Hermione," Luna said. "She's helping me with my next book—_The Adventures of the Angry Anteater_."

"It's a children's book," Hermione told him. "Luna's a best-seller. We've translated into four hundred and six languages already, including Gobbedlygook."

"I still think the name sounds odd," Luna said. "I much prefer _Oi, You There, Angry Eater Ant._"

"It's name is Oi?" Sam asked incredulously.

"Ron thought of it," Luna said, which somehow made sense to Hermione, because she nodded. "Daddy wants to know how many you want this time, Hermione."

"Seventy four and eight," Hermione said. "You wouldn't think we'd do as well in France as we are."

"Oh, I knew you would," Luna said enthusiastically. "I'll go tell Daddy. See you Sunday. Bye, Sam."

Sam waited. He tapped the counter three times, eyed the parmesan shaker. Took a bite of pizza. Hermione picked up her book and dabbed at her mouth with her napkin.

"Did she just say bye and go to the bathroom?" Sam finally asked.

"I did tell her to Apparate," Hermione said, turning the page. "It doesn't have anything to do with plumbing, if that's what you're wondering."

"Yeah, that's what I'm wondering," Sam muttered. A piece of his brain had detached and started cheering, which made the rest of his brain hurt—civil war never went well and he couldn't figure out what it was cheering _for_. Mental breakdown? It was kind of like hanging out with Gabriel when he was a teenager, except Hermione didn't seem the least homicidal. Just triple crazy, but in a normal way that didn't include stabbing.

Only thing was, he wasn't quite sure about the stabby bit anymore.

"Two questions," Sam said.

"I'll give you two and a half if you answer two of mine," she said.

"Do you kill people?"

"Only one, but he was trying extremely hard to kill me, and it isn't my fault that the bones in a human body are naturally inclined to break when meeting a stone wall at high velocity. That was before I met you."

"Did you know about Gabriel back then?"

She closed her book and set it to the side. "No," she said quietly. "He told me after you – I went back to England. He knew I wouldn't have had anything to do with him, I think, and I think he liked having someone who didn't care what he was, or bother him about it. Or maybe it was just to irritate me. You can never tell with him. I know now, of course, but it's not like I can sit him down and give him a good talking to, is it?"

"You don't have to worry about it now," Dean said from behind them. Sam grinned at how disgruntled he sounded—from finding them eating pizza together, to them eating pizza without him, to Sam and Hermione in general.

"I'm sure you're very good," Hermione said, and slid over a seat so—Sam slid into it. Dean sat on the other side of him, casting him a glare that said he knew exactly what Sam was doing and didn't like it one bit and Sam's eyes widened because he didn't know what he was talking about. "But Gabriel _is_a very tricky god."

"Was," Dean said. "He was. Could I get two slices of supreme? Thanks. You find out what she is yet?"

"That was my next question," Sam said. He looked at her. "Hermione, what are you?"

"I said you get two and a half questions," Hermione said. "You should have asked that one first. Now me. Sam, why are you hunting magical creatures when you _should_ be in university? I was so _sure_, you see, and I don't like being wrong."

"Things got out of hand," Sam said. He thought of Jessica—on the ceiling, her eyes staring down at him, the blood spreading. "Had to take up the mantle. I might go back one day."

"Good," she said. "Since Dean's here, my next question will be easier. How are you both? I'm sorry I never got a chance to call you after St. Louis."

"St. Louis?" Sam asked. Dean became interested in adding a parmesan moat to his pizza. Hermione's eyebrows rose in confusion as she looked at him.

"Dean and I stumbled across one another while I was on a date," Hermione said, still eyeing Dean in bewilderment. "A shoe salesman, if I recall correctly. He was rather dull, wasn't he?"

He pulled his lower lip into his mouth and stared at Dean's right ear. "Was this before or after _we_were in St. Louis?"

"Um, before, I think," Dean said around his pizza, and reached over for Hermione's drink since they'd both forgot to order any. "Right after you left."

Well, thanks _brother. _

Not that it mattered or anything.

He had been in college. He'd been studying hard. He'd been meeting Jessica.

He'd been screening his calls.

"So?" Hermione prompted. "How are you both?"

"Good, thanks," Dean said. "Take it the shoe salesman didn't work out?"

"You were right about the foot fetish," Hermione said. She looked at Sam.

"Uh, good," he said.

"Brilliant," she said, and started a flurry of movement as she got her things together, dropping things, leaving things for next time, yelling bye to Georgie, before entering the restroom.

Dean and Sam sat at the counter, Dean's stolen drink half-empty, and stared at their pizzas.

Sam tried to find the silver lining.

At least they knew they were out of their depth?

Silver-ish.

"It doesn't have anything to do with plumbing," he told Dean.

* * *

"If this is another one of your 'is your refrigerator running?' jokes, I am vastly annoyed. Did you know the Aurors fine you up to two hundred Galleons for large rogue appliances?"

"Um," Sam said.

"I don't _have_two hundred Galleons. Next time, I'm letting the stupid thing stay in the river." A pause. "This isn't—"

"No, not really. Or at all."

"Ah. The unfamiliar phone number, you see."

Sam pulled his lips in, pressing them between his teeth until tiny pushpins ran the length and turned them numb. "So. This is Sam. Winchester."

"Yes, I remember you, Sam," Hermione said. "We did have part of a lunch together today—yesterday, now. Oh, good, the fridge is still here. How did you get my number?"

"I stole your cell phone and called mine," Sam said.

"You're _good_," she said, and Sam wiggled at the awe in her voice. Then he stopped, because a, he wasn't a puppy, b, Dean would get pissed if he found out he was wiggling anything on the Impala's new wax job.

"It's a talent," he said, buffing his nails on his chest. "So. Um. Hermione."

"Sam."

"This is, ah, awkward."

"It is, isn't it," she said. "We should probably get off the line before our phones explode with the combined force of how awkward we are."

"I was just thinking that."

"Really? How odd."

He thought, _I know a way we can make it less awkward,_ but that was a total _Dean_ thing to say, and he was kind of wondering about that whole meeting with them and why Hermione thought she could say _foot fetish_to Dean without it being weird, but talking to Sam was exploding electronics awkward. He was also wondering if her second question would have been the same, if she would have asked after Dean, if it had been just Sam she was asking. He wondered why Dean had started talking about how a parmesan moat was way cooler than a parmesan castle (because a moat had crocodiles and a pet crocodile was awesomer than a pet iguana, hands down, while a castle just had a stupid princess you had to marry before you fucked and she was usually asleep through the whole thing anyway) when Sam brought up St. Louis.

His head hurt.

"I'm sorry," Hermione said. She paused. Sam waited for her to say _I can't do this, please don't call again_, his lower jaw prickling, his hand tight on the phone, the trees blocking any chance of light. He heard her swallow, a soft breath. "I'm sorry for how we met," she continued, and her voice shook. "But I'm not sorry I met you. You were the first friend I had that didn't – didn't know what I was. Not just the human enough part, but the Hermione Granger, Swot part, or how I used to have buckteeth, or that my parents were dentists, or that I was the singular existence of an unpopular girl being popular for it. It – You were like, like— I don't even know the words, they're not in any dictionary, but you were it, Sam. It's selfish and mean and I'll always hate myself for it, but I don't regret tripping you that day."

This was stupid. They had less than three months history (and there hadn't even been the chance of marrying her before he, um, you know—god, he needed to stop listening to Dean. Like, yesterday.) Theirs wasn't some story for the books, or even legitimate at all, and he remembered how horrible she made him feel that time in the garage, because he _knew_she'd felt something too, but not enough, or more for Dean, or just Gabriel, now that he thought back.

But all he could see when he looked down, ready to say that, ready to hang up and forget this stupid week had ever happened, was her utterly crushed face when she talked about making that Beeker kid cry when it hadn't been her fault, and how she'd sniffled before she got out of the car.

"If." He had to clear his throat. "If that was all a lie, your history back then—Gabriel as your godfather, the traveling parents, everything. If that was just a lie, if you were there for, I don't know—me? Dean? Both of us? Dad?—why didn't you follow us to Indiana? Why did you leave? It defeated the whole purpose, didn't it?"

"That's just it," Hermione said, her voice as quiet as the sky above him. "There wasn't a purpose, Sam. Gabriel just wanted me to get close to you and Dean. He wanted me to have you in my eyesight, or my mind, or both. I don't know what he wanted, to this day he hasn't given me a straight answer. But he knows you and your brother are meant for big, big things. Things like I used to be in. I think that's why."

"Big things? Like _what_?"

"Holocaust big," Hermione said. "Or maybe that's another of his exaggerations. I _don't know_, Sam. I wish I did. I've tried—I've been trying to find out, it's why I moved here permanently, but there's absolutely _nothing_ in the prophesies vault about you two. I've combed all through there, under all fifteen thousand names you'll be reborn with, under _anything_the gods would care about. I wish – I don't know," she ended tearfully. "I just don't believe in prophesy enough. Maybe it can sense it. I should have found something by now, but it's like you two have been wiped from the records entirely."

Gordon said Sam would be in the demon army. Gods would care about wars happening on their turf, wouldn't they? They might even die out, if there weren't any humans to sacrifice, to believe in them, to feed them. Gods would care about Hell putting a stop to their fun. They might even send some scouts out: the one god insane enough to use a regular enough human for his dirty work. Maybe that god would jerk around that regular enough human while he was at it, too, and not tell her anything (and maybe he added that one for his own benefit.)

Maybe everything she told him was a lie. Maybe she was a goddess messing with his puny little mind. Maybe she wasn't human at all, not regular in the least. Maybe she'd been playing them (him) all along, and not just lying.

Both options were too fucking depressing.

"All fifteen thousand names, huh?" he said, and leaned back against the Impala again. He could hear Suki yelling about the greatest prices in history from the closest motel room. Don't buy these knives now, you no get them cheap later!

"I wasn't surprised at how many times Dean comes back as a girl," Hermione said. "You know, he used to be one of the"—the phone cut out, Sam pulled his head away as static screeched in his ear—"isn't that funny?"

"Uh," Sam said. Some things were better left unsaid (or the universe might kill him, apparently.) "So what do you do for a living? Do you sell books, like Luna's?"

"Well, the magical world's book selling process is rather different from the non-magical one," Hermione said. "What you heard today was a combined meeting with a writer, agent, editor, printer, distributor, and sometimes I do Xeno's—that's her father—taxes. I'm not sure what I am, exactly, but at least I'm not in that _dreadful_ Ministry. Harry and Ron, they're Aurors back in Britain, have to fill out fifteen forms to go to the washroom. You know I am as big of a fan of paperwork as anyone is, but even I was shocked. It's fortunate I decided to use my money from my medal for a degree in accountancy. Most days, though, I'm Gabriel's literary agent. He's making a killing in Japan with his pseudo-mystery-science fiction-fantasy-mock biographical romances. People _love_the tawdry." She was normal enough. Any fully normal person would have had to take a breath somewhere.

"You'll have to send me a copy," Sam said, and leaned his head back to stare straight up at the sky, though he didn't notice it. "You really don't think he's dead, do you?"

"Seeing how he forwarded me twenty of those stupid send these or die emails this morning, I'm certain he's alive, if still hopelessly tacky."

He wondered how a Trickster could find his victims—yes, forwarding those things would be like posting an ad for them.

"Dean's gonna be pissed, you know," Sam told her.

"Luckily," she said, and he could hear her smiling, "that is not my affair."

"Maybe we should just pretend you didn't tell me that," Sam offered. "I could go for that."

"Me too," she said, and yes, she was smiling. "So how long will you be in Virginia?"

"I don't know," Sam said. He kind of wanted to say _we just came here for you_ for her response, but couldn't get the option of her saying _oh, has Dean said anything about me?_out of his mind. "I could check our calendar, if you want."

"Yes, immortal beings to slay, normal enough humans to scare the beejesus out of," she said, laughing. "I don't know how you have the time to talk to me right now. You must be booked solid."

"We met our monthly quota last week. I don't want to gasconade, but killing anything else would be superfluous."

"I am so annoyed at you right now, Sam Winchester. It's not even an hour in and you've used today's word in a sentence."

So out of his depth a top-secret military submarine couldn't get to him.

* * *

"What's gotten into you?"

"What do you mean?"

"What do I –" Dean put his hands on the table, staring at him like he was a supernatural creature he would get answers from. The easy way or the hard way, he would say, and the stupid fucks always went the hard way—but Sam didn't even notice this look because his attention was back to his laptop again, and his chest shaking with laughter. He bit his tongue, searched among the clutter on the table, and threw the _Grim-moire of Spell-Casting_at him. Side of the head score, fifteen points. Sam rubbed his head, but looked at him instead of the computer.

"What do I _mean_? I mean, you got up at noon, Sam. _Noon_. You're an asscrack of dawn annoying person. And now you won't stop laughing and smiling and doing whatever on your laptop. It is _creeping me the fuck out_." Annoying person? _Really?_

"You didn't have to throw a book," Sam muttered at him.

He rolled his eyes. Why did his brother have to be a librarian in training?

"Hermione sent me a PDF of one of Gabriel's books," Sam said as he put the grimoire on the nightstand. He grinned at something—Dean didn't even want to know—as he sat back again, putting his arm behind his head as he did something on his laptop. "He's pretty good…"

Attention gone.

"Shoulda killed her in St. Louis," he said, and left for the nearest bar and pool table. _Was_ good. He _was_good. Why was he the only one concerned with grammar now?

Yeah. Definitely should've ganked her.

_fin_


End file.
